


Of Morphine and Minivans

by MDJensen



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Gen, Steve's just having a rough day, but there's no Big Angst in this one, caring Jerry, carsick Steve, he's a mess tbh, pukey Steve, tw vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24945073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: It figures. For the first time in his adult life Steve actually fessed up about his carsickness; and now, literally that same day, he’s about to have a bout of it. Coda to 5x01.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 59





	Of Morphine and Minivans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aries_taurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/gifts).



> tw for vomit
> 
> SO. Literally almost a full year ago, aries_taurus gave me this amazing H/C prompt:
> 
> _I still adore your Jerry crush on Steve. I bring you this: S5 opener: Steve cops to being carsick if he doesn't drive. Then gets shot in the leg. Gets leg fixed which means painkillers, probably morphine because let's face it. Ow. And then, they stick him in the back seat of Jerry's minivan with garlic shrimp???? Ain't that a recipe for disaster? And an opportunity for Jerry to motherhen Captain Am-er I mean Steve?_
> 
> I remember legitimately intending to write it before summer ’19 ended… and here it is summer ’20. OOPS. Luckily, I still adore both Steve and Jerry. And I still REALLY adore sick/vulnerable Steve and caring/head-over-heels Jerry. Sooo… better late than never? aries_taurus— and the rest of you reading— I hope you enjoy!

The mechanism whirs, the door shuts by itself, and Steve sighs. Yeah, he’s got way more room here than he would have in the Camaro— and yeah, okay, that’s necessary right now. But Jerry’s enthusiasm is, frankly, dizzying. And he’s not exactly excited to be riding in the backseat, and with a driver of unknown skill. It wouldn’t’ve killed Danny to take him home.

Oh well.

At least he’s going home.

A bullet to his outer thigh, dealt with promptly, was never likely to kill him. But getting shot in _any_ capacity, frankly, sucks. The morphine is making him lightheaded, and foggy, and vaguely emotional, and he’s still having breakthrough pain.

So, yeah, home will be nice.

So Steve makes the most of it: forgoes the seatbelt to sit at an angle and stretch his leg across the whole bench seat. Leans his head sideways against the headrest. Jerry’s got the AC blasting and the radio going, and this melds with the road noise and forms a kind of auditory cloud. He’s safe, inside it. Maybe he’ll even sleep.

He lets his thoughts come as they will, and finds himself watching Kamekona’s balloons— and why the hell does Kame have custom balloons anyway? No, wait. Scratch that. Of course he does. It’s a wonder the guy hasn’t started selling branded underwear yet.

The balloons are sort of drifting-bobbing against the ceiling beside him, making soft, tight sounds as they go. They want out, Steve thinks, absently. He imagines the roof opening up; they’d rise; they’d fall towards the sky and there’d be nothing to stop them. And maybe he’d fall too—

Steve huffs, turns his head away from the objectively innocuous sight that’s nevertheless leaving him disoriented and existential to boot.

And sort of queasy, too.

Oh— fuck.

It’s starting.

It figures. For the first time in his adult life he actually fessed up about his carsickness; and now, literally that same day, he’s about to have a bout of it.

Steve takes a slow, deep breath. Tries not to assume the worst. They’re only twenty minutes away from his house at this point; and even as a kid he (usually) only puked on longer drives. This might be unpleasant. But he’s not actually going to get sick— he’s just not.

Twenty minutes. Maybe less. And besides, he’s older now; stronger-stomached and also— frankly?— really, really stubborn. So okay, the drive won’t be fun. He can handle _not fun_.

But, just in case, he swings his leg down and slides to the rightmost seat, putting himself curbside in case he needs to exit quickly.

Not that he will.

He _won’t_.

He feels eyes on him; looks up and accidentally meets Jerry’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “You okay, commander?”

“Leg cramped,” Steve lies.

“Need me to pull over?”

“Jus’,” he huffs. “Keep your eyes on the road, please.”

It’s not that Jerry’s a bad driver. He’s not; and it helps that he’s not. Still, they’re going highway speeds, and Steve’s in the backseat, and the whole van smells like garlic shrimp. And he’s still kind of dizzy. And none of these things are great news. 

The nausea’s getting worse. His stomach feels like a water balloon that somebody won’t stop squeezing and sloshing, and he’s getting that thick, slippery feeling in his mouth.

Okay. He might need a break. Just a little one.

He is _not_ going to get sick, but— if he could just sit still, get some fresh air for a minute— that would do _wonders_ —

“Actually, yeah, pull over,” Steve manages; then he’s got to press his lips closed and keep them that way. Jerry doesn’t argue. Just gets in the slow lane, puts the hazards on, and gradually decelerates.

They’re almost there. And okay, yeah, so maybe he’ll need a puke a little when they stop, but if he makes it to the shoulder it’s still better than he did as a child. That’s not a big deal.

The car shudders, twice, as both sets of wheels cross over the rumble strips.

Almost there.

Then the water balloon gives a particularly violent slosh and Steve slaps a hand to his mouth—in vain.

A gush of hot, gritty vomit surges up, and out. It leaks through his fingers, soiling his shirt.

Five seconds too late, the car stops; the door whirs open, and Steve takes half a second to appreciate the automation as he didn’t before.

Then he’s heaving again. Just barely has time to lean out the door before another wave of puke rushes upwards, splattering the asphalt.

“Nice,” Jerry says, somewhere over his head. Which is exactly what Danny would say only without Danny’s sarcasm, like they’re frat boys and Jerry’s actually impressed with how hugely and nastily Steve has blown chunks.

Steve just groans. Awkwardly—given that one hand is covered in vomit and, oh yeah, one leg has a goddamn gunshot wound—he gets himself sitting on the edge of the van’s floor, leaning forward, legs spread wide so he can (hopefully) puke between them.

Because yes. More puke is coming; no fucking doubt about it. A lot more. Like, so much more.

Fuck, this is miserable. He hasn’t ralphed in the back of a friend’s mom’s minivan in a long damn time, and frankly it’s not something he needed to do once, let alone twice, let alone at the age of 37.

(Sean’s mom had been really nice about it, though. She cleaned him up and told the other boys not to laugh, told them that everybody got sick sometimes. And she’s never mentioned it again. Even though her car smelled like regurgitated Gatorade for weeks, even though she always make sure Steve rode up front from then on and kept a discreet supply of peppermint Lifesavers in one cupholder—)

Steve shakes himself. For a moment he can’t work out why he’s getting lost in his own head so easily; but then he remembers.

Morphine. _Fuck_. Morphine makes it hard to pull back and fuck, _it’s_ why he got carsick so fast! He knows this is what morphine does to him; why the hell didn’t he ask for an antiemetic before they discharged him? He never stood a chance.

Morphine and minivans and motion sickness.

What a cocktail.

And garlic! Jesus, so much garlic on those shrimp, and why is garlic so— so fickle, anyway? How can he have such a love-hate relationship with a seasoning? Most days he loves a hearty dose of extra-fine mince added to rice or pasta— but today the thought of it disgusts him. Worse, Kamekona doesn’t chop his evenly— more often than not there’s at least one big chunk somewhere in there, greasy with butter and chewy and overpowering and— and he can feel it between his molars—

Fuck, he’s gonna puke again. Right now. But for reasons he can’t quite explain, instead of surrendering then and there, Steve pushes to his feet and hobbles into the grass.

It helps a little, being outside. But not enough. He’s still going to be sick within the next ten seconds and he wonders absently if he should just go down onto all fours right now. Yes, he can balance on one leg. But no, he’s not sure he can do it while simultaneously puking his guts up, which in addition to making it harder to stand makes it even more important that he not topple forwards—

Then there’s a hand at his arm. Jerry braces him by the elbow, and between his support and Steve’s good leg, he stays standing while he leans forward and vomits onto the ground, again and again, for what seems like hours.

When it’s done he’s shaking head to toe. And, despite this afternoon’s drone takedown, Steve is still a bit baffled at what he does next: he utterly and completely turns the situation over.

To _Jerry Ortega_.

But, just like it did with the drone, it turns out okay. Jerry helps him take a few steps away, then lowers him to the grass and leaves him alone to take huge gasps of fresh air. And with each one, Steve feels a little closer to human again.

Jerry’s gone a few minutes. And when he returns he smells like puke and lemons, and with a pang of— _something_ — Steve realizes that he’s been cleaning up the van. Unsure how to thank him, Steve doesn’t try.

But Jerry, if he notices, doesn’t say a word about it. Just crouches at Steve’s side and looks him over, shaking his head as he does. “Aw, dude. You got it all over yourself, man.”

“What?”

“You got, like, your entire shirt— and your arm and your hand— dude, why didn’t you move your hand? When you realized it was coming?”

“Dunno,” Steve groans, fighting not close his eyes. The nausea’s passing but it’s leaving him not-quite-in-control: high now not only on morphine but on post-puke relief as well. And he’s still got to clean himself up.

“Okay. Hang on, lemme help.”

And apparently Steve did close his eyes, because he has to open them to watch Jerry stand. He blinks upwards at the familiar silhouette. Jerry’s miming some sort of motion now, and it takes his addled brain a moment to work out that Jerry wants him to raise his arms.

He does. And Jerry peels his shirt off, and carefully over his head, before depositing it in a plastic grocery bag. All this, he does with a passive smile. On principle, Steve wants to protest being undressed like a little kid; but he’s still shaking, and dizzy, so he lets it happen.

There’s a faint, plastic popping. Now that his shirt’s off, Jerry is offering a cannister of wet wipes, holding it so Steve can pull them out at his own speed. A dozen wipes later and he’s more or less cleaned up. His shirt was the worst of it, so with that gone and his arms and chest wiped down, it’s a vast improvement.

“Are you, uh.” Jerry motions to the plastic bag, full of ruined fabric and used-up wet wipes. “You tryina’ save the shirt?”

“I’m,” Steve begins, then has to clear his throat, “not trying to save the shirt.”

“That’s prob’ly for the best, dude. Hey, your shorts are okay! Mostly.”

Steve glances down, and groans; _mostly_ is the key word there. But—and maybe this makes him a Neanderthal, like Danny’s always saying—one spot is not enough to get rid of an otherwise fine piece of clothing. Not to mention: he is _not_ stripping to boxers on the side of the highway.

“Here,” Jerry continues, now handing over a lukewarm bottle of water. Steve swills some in his mouth a few times, then uses the rest to rinse the leftover stickiness from his fingers. Then he passes it back, and Jerry stuffs it in with the shirt and wipes.

They look at the bag; they look at each other. Then Jerry shrugs.

“For the record, I’m generally uncomfortable with littering.”

“For the record, I generally agree,” Steve replies. “But. In this case.”

“In this case.”

They leave the bag right where it is, as Jerry helps Steve to his feet and towards the van— steering him towards the backseat.

Steve grimaces, stops moving forward. “Jerry, I— I gotta sit up front, man. No matter how I need to put my leg.”

“’kay,” Jerry replies, automatically; but it’s followed by the visible turning of cogs in his head. He frowns. “This wasn’t just the painkillers, then?”

Steve doesn’t reply.

“You shoulda said something to begin with, commander.”

“It’s— classified information.”

“What, that you get carsick? Plenty of people get carsick.”

Steve only grunts, ending the conversation. At the van, he leans against the sliding door while Jerry clears notebooks and random electronics from the passenger’s seat.

“Need a hand up?” Jerry offers, when he’s finished. Steve shakes his head, and climbs awkwardly— but successfully— into the seat.

And, almost immediately starts gagging again. The garlicky, seafood-y smell was strong enough to begin with; now it’s been marinating in growing heat for ten minutes and— it’s bad. It’s really bad. And apparently enough time has passed for his body to work up some more juices, because bitter bile seeps into his mouth.

Steve chokes. Leans forward, spits it onto the ground.

“Commander?”

“Jerry,” he gasps, peering upwards as much as he can manage. “C’you— can you—?”

“Can I what? What?”

“Please— m’— g’— g-get rid ‘f— the fucking— _shrimp_!”

“What? Oh! Oh, okay.”

Steve screws his eyes shut, tries to keep what meager control he has left over his stomach. He hears the sliding door open. Hears Jerry reaching for the offending bag; hears the balloons settle against the ceiling as he frees them from the plastic handles.

“Okay,” Jerry’s voice says, a minute later. “I tossed it. No pun intended. Also, I have now littered more today than I have in my entire life combined.”

Steve squints upwards, and follows Jerry’s gesture; the bag is now set in the grass maybe ten yards away, not far from the puke-shirt-bag.

Too far to smell.

Too far to do any more damage.

“Just, sit a minute, okay?” Jerry soothes. He’s in the backseat again, leaning forward to reach the ignition. “Not gonna drive— I’m just gonna get the AC going for you—”

The engine turns over. True to Jerry’s word, the air conditioning fires up and blasts him with a cold, dry gust.

Outside the open door is still the familiar, oppressive humidity. The differential makes him shiver all over again; the hairs on his bare arms abruptly stand up straight.

“Sorry,” Jerry mumbles. “Sort of wasn’t thinking about the no-shirt thing.” He reaches into the front seat again, fingers aiming for the environmental controls.

“Leave it,” Steve croaks. It’s cold, yeah, but the manufactured, odorless air is helping. The garlic had been the worst, obviously, but even the typically-inoffensive scents of asphalt and car exhaust had been getting to him. The air from the car vents smells of nothing: exactly what he needs right now.

Jerry leaves it. Then, after a moment of apparent consideration, offers, “you wanna wear my sweatshirt?”

Steve blinks. Tries to look back at him, but gets freshly dizzy halfway through.

“I keep one in the van,” Jerry continues. “I know it’d be too big, but, that’s better than too small—”

For the first time in this entire escapade, Jerry sounds faintly embarrassed. Steve can’t blame him. It’s an oddly—intimate—thing for two grown men who are not really great friends to do. And yet—

And yet Jerry just held him upright while he puked his brains out, and _then_ helped him deal with the aftermath. So maybe they’re better friends than he’d thought.

Besides, he’s kind of starting to shiver.

Steve nods. Jerry climbs out, closing the door behind himself; then appears a moment later, in the driver’s seat, with a crumpled-up heather grey ball. Steve tries not to show his suspicion. But he’s honestly going to start puking again if that thing smells like BO or even stale fabric—

But it doesn’t. Tentatively he pulls the hoodie over his head, and smells nothing but a faint whiff of not-too-perfumey laundry soap.

And oh. Oh. Shit, it’s—amazing. It’s love, within seconds. The hoodie is huge on him, obviously, like a 3x or maybe even 4x but that makes it better. That makes it fantastic. Steve huddles inside of it like a little kid and thinks that maybe this is the safest he’s felt since—who knows? A long fucking time ago. It’s just cotton. But the fabric around him is warm and sweet and feels honestly bulletproof.

He’s never loved an item of clothing more. Jerry is never getting this back.

“You feelin’ okay?” Jerry’s voice is tentative. Steve nods. He doesn’t feel _great_ , of course; but it seems like the episode is drawing to a close. Finally.

Nevertheless Jerry rustles up another plastic bag, before they start moving again. And yeah, okay, it’s not a bad idea. Steve doesn’t get sick again. He does let himself drool into the bag a few times, though, when an upset-stomach belch brings more saliva than he can comfortably swallow.

The first two times, Jerry ignores this. But the third he pats Steve on the back and mumbles pleasant half-sentences like _no big deal_ and _need a break, just say so_.

Which is so, so _kind_ of him. Seriously. Not that Steve hasn’t tried to be kind to Jerry but, no, he hasn’t really treated him in the same way he treats Chin or Kono or Lou. And here Jerry is, being an absolute angel to him anyway.

It’s funny. Up until a few minutes ago— whether or not he acknowledged it at the time— he’d really been missing Danny. Like, badly. Even though the guy kind of honestly hurt his feelings this morning. His instinct is, and probably always will be, to seek out his partner when he needs protection.

And yet? In a weird way this is better; because Danny would either be shrill and judgmental or, more likely, shrill and actually concerned. And he hates when Danny is concerned.

But Jerry is just— Jerry. Just friendly and placid and _steady_.

Surprisingly steady.

And in his presence Steve is lulled by the slightly absurd notion that if he fell asleep right here, Jerry would take him home and put him to bed.

That’s not exactly what happens. But it’s not _not_ what happens. Steve doesn’t sleep; but he does try to zone out for the rest of the ride, as much as he can. And when they arrive, Jerry helps him inside. He settles him on the couch and brings him water and blankets, and the little trashcan from the downstairs bathroom.

Then he perches in the armchair. Waits until Steve’s made himself comfortable, half-reclined, before speaking.

“How you doin’, commander?”

Steve grunts. “Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He swallows back the rest; then decides to say it anyway. “I hate throwing up, man.”

“Oh man, for real. I remember when I had my tonsils out— I dunno what exactly I was on but I didn’t stop throwing up for like a solid twenty-four. And right after surgery on your throat? Without exaggeration, I’d put it in the top five worst days of my life.”

This isn’t in Steve’s top five. Or top ten, or top twenty. He wonders if Jerry’s had an easy life, or just really, _really_ hates throwing up.

“Jerry.”

“Hm?”

“I, uh.” Steve pushes himself a little farther upright. “I meant what I said. The fact that I get carsick is not— something I advertise.”

“Afraid your enemies would use it against you?”

“Jerry—”

“Like. Superman’s got kryptonite, you’ve got motion sickness—” Jerry’s smile dims. “It was a joke, commander.”

But with that joke, a thought that’s been forming for the last half-hour finally coalesces.

With that joke, Steve finds himself taking Jerry a whole lot more seriously.

Because, on the surface? He’s affable, downright easygoing. But the fact of the matter is that Jerry’s got to be nursing some pretty significant mental-health-type problems. People don’t live in basements for the heck of it.

He almost definitely knows what it’s like, having some— _stuff_ — that you’d rather keep to yourself.

“I’m sorry for making light of it.” Jerry’s frowning now. “Of course I won’t say anything.”

“No, I’m. I’m sorry for implying that you would. Um.” Steve sighs. “I guess this is something I’m a little sensitive about.”

The frown eases, replaced by another smile. “We’ve all got ‘em. Hey, I’ll let you rest now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Can I get you anything else? Phone charger?” he adds, just as Steve’s about to shake his head.

Steve smiles instead. “That’d be great.”

So a few minutes later, not only does he have water and blankets (and a trashcan); he’s also got his phone charger, the remote control, and a roll of paper towels. Jerry hovers at the other end of the couch, rocking slightly. It’s beyond clear that he’s trying to think of anything else he can do; and at the familiar earnestness, Steve smiles again.

“Jerry, I’m good. You set me up good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Hey.” Steve waits until the guy meets his eyes, however briefly. “You, uh. You really came through today, buddy. More than once. Seriously, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Jerry replies, then snorts. “Maybe not _pleasure_.”

“Understood.”

“You sure you don’t need anything else?”

“I really don’t, bro. Get outta here. You’ve had a long day, too.”

“Yeah. I guess I have.” Jerry glances out the window and Steve follows his gaze; outside the sun is finally beginning to set. Oahu’s safe. And Steve? Is a bit worse for wear, but he’ll be fine.

“Night, Jerry,” Steve says, with a meaningful look.

“Yeah.” Very, very lightly, Jerry pats Steve’s foot through the blanket. “Sleep well, commander.”

And then he’s out the door, locking it behind him; and Steve rests his head against the back of the couch and does just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I rewatched bits of this episode in prep for writing, and it gave me Jerry feels all over again <3 years before he got his badge he was still an integral part of Five-0!


End file.
